


as moonlight through the pines

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Tattoos, nauseating amounts of domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: The tattoos are Bellamy’s idea.Clarke has left her kit of ink and needles on their makeshift dining table, next to her paintings that she was letting dry. Harper came in earlier asking for a touch-up and she forgot to put them away.Now, Bellamy’s eyes land on it and he tugs her towards it saying, “I want another tattoo.”In the end she draws a minimalistic version of a sunset-- or sunrise, depending on how you look at it-- over the ocean, just a few straight lines for the sea and a semicircle for the sun. It’s very simple, with thick dark lines that stand out nicely from the skin.“It could probably pass as a clan tattoo,” she says, studying it while she cleans it up. “Maybe we should give it to all our people.”“I could give it to you,” he says, already reaching for the ink, and Clarke is sufficiently drunk enough that nothing about that sentence sets off any alarm bells in her head. “You’re my people. You need one too.”She grins and reveals her forearm to him too, already taking a swig from the bottle in preparation. “Okay.”-or, 3 times the grounders thought they were married and one time they actually were





	as moonlight through the pines

**Author's Note:**

> BFF fill for the prompt: canonverse, bellarke accidentally get matching tattoos and it takes them a minute to realize all the grounders think they’re married now

Clarke finds him perched on the large rock that juts out on the shore, staring at the ocean. It’s high tide and the waves lap at her feet as she wanders out to meet him, soaking the hem of her pants that she neglected to roll up. Down here the sound of drums and happy shrieks from their little village is all but swallowed over the crash of the waves.

She climbs up the rock easily, grimacing when her feet land on the cool slick of algae at the bottom of its sides, and sits next to him, letting her legs hang. She’s high enough that if she were to jump off she’d create a sizeable splash in the water below.

“Not enjoying the party?” she asks, trying to wrangle her hair back into a bun. It was nice having it down and loose around her shoulders for the party, but now it’s a nuisance, the ocean wind blowing it into her mouth and eyes.

Bellamy barely spares her a glance and takes another swig from the bottle he holds on his lap. Moonshine from the smell of it. The really good stuff that Monty doesn’t serve to the public.

“Enjoying it a bit too much probably,” he snorts. “Came here to clear my head.”

“Can’t clear your head if you’re still drinking,” she comments before reaching over to snag the bottle from his grasp.

He knocks his shoulder into hers. “Always looking out for me, huh.”

“Someone has to,” she shrugs before taking a sip from the bottle. It burns on its way down but it’s nothing like the paint thinner they used to have back in the early days. This one just warms her from the inside out.

Bellamy just hums in response before pulling her hair loose from the bun she just managed to put it into. “I’m beginning to think that I’m getting too old for these things,” he says as he cards his fingers through her hair. Her eyes flutter shut at the scratch of his blunt nails against her scalp, the slight pinch of pain when he tugs through a knot.

“Oh please, you’re twenty-eight, not eighty.”

“What can I say, each war we fought took twenty years off my life.”

“Well then, you look very good for an eighty-year-old,” she tells him as he begins to braid her hair. “Very spry too.”

“Thanks. It’s all the seaweed tea you make me drink,” he deadpans.

“I told you it was good for something.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he says fondly, tying off the end of her braid with a leather string before stealing back his moonshine and taking a healthy gulp.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, swapping the bottle back and forth as they stare out at sea. As much as she likes parties and having fun with her friends, it’s moments like these that are Clarke’s favourite. Moments where it’s just her and Bellamy, utterly and completely at peace.

When the alcohol has finally loosened her limbs enough, she drops her head on his shoulder and sighs. “Can you believe we’ve been on earth for over five years?”

He snorts. “I have too many scars to  _ not _ believe it.”

She socks him in the stomach and he lets out a soft ‘oof’. “I’m being serious you dick.”

“I know, I know.” He rests his head on top of hers and sighs. “Four years since we moved out here. How you feeling?”

“Same way I did back then. Like I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Still scared?” he asks, his fingers grazing hers when she passes back the bottle.

“Always.” She takes a sip. Swallows. “You?”

This time when she passes the bottle back to him he covers her hand with his and when she looks up he’s already looking down at her, an indiscernible look in his eye. It makes her shiver.

“Never,” he says simply, “I’ve always had faith in you.”

Clarke swallows and removes her hand from under his.

“I think you’re most definitely drunk,” she declares and Bellamy sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Maybe a little,” he allows, even as he takes another swig.

“You were halfway down the bottle when I got here. No human can make it halfway down a bottle of Monty’s stuff and still walk in a straight line,” she says, before draining the bottle.

“You gonna walk me home then?” he asks, grinning at her, and she rolls her eyes, shoving him in the shoulder.

“I’m going to drown you in the ocean,” she sniffs and Bellamy just grins wider.

She slips down easily enough from the rock unlike him, who splashes water everywhere, including on her. Clarke can feel the effects of the moonshine more when she’s standing, the world hazy and spinning on its axis. It’s a wonder that Bellamy is still standing despite drinking that much.

They both stumble back to their cabin together in the dark, hands gripping one another as they clamber over tree roots and stray rocks that litter the ground. Bellamy and Clarke’s cabin is located on the outskirts of the little village they’ve made for themselves, about a ten minute walk inland from the beach, twenty if you’re both drunk and floundering.

Bellamy built it for them during that first year, long and flat with a wrap-around porch and three front steps. Clarke loves everything about their home, from the front window that doesn’t close all the way in, to the creaky back door, to the slight tilt in the floor.

It’s what makes this place their home.

Bellamy is a bit of a neat freak whose eye twitches every time there’s so much as a cushion out of place while Clarke is the kind of person to kick off her shoes and leave them wherever they land. It was a bit tricky at first, their contrasting approaches, but now, the inside of their cabin is an organised mess. Some paint supplies here, old maps and hunting guides there, a single catch-it-all chair tucked in the corner, his one concession to her chaos.

At the very least it provides conversation and ideas and inspiration.

She’d leave her newest painting out to dry, the brushes still soaking in the cup and he’d make her tell him all about it, genuinely interested in her creative process. Or he’d put down his newest book on the table and she’ll ask him about it, really get him going until he’s talking a mile a minute, his hands moving everywhere. She left her suture kit a day and he sees it, and then spends the weekend showing her how to get her stitches small and even, just like his when he’s repairing the holes in her socks.

There’s always something left lying around to cause conversation and that can sometimes be a double edged sword, especially if they’re both drunk and ready to take on the world.

The tattoos are Bellamy’s idea.

Clarke has left her kit of ink and needles on their makeshift dining table, next to her paintings that she was letting dry. Harper came in earlier asking for a touch-up and she forgot to put them away.

Now, Bellamy’s eyes land on it and he tugs her towards it saying, “I want another tattoo.”

Normally, Clarke would put up a fight, be the voice of reason and logic and list out all the reasons why making such a snap decision while drunk was a bad idea.

However, Clarke is  _ also _ drunk, which means she finds herself nodding along with him. 

“You should do one on your forearm,” she says, very seriously even as she sways on the spot. “You don’t have any on them.”

Bellamy has three tattoos, one on his ribcage, his shoulder, and his bicep, all of which Clarke is responsible for. He refused to let anyone but her come close to him with the needle.

She cleaned her kit after Harper left, sanitizing all the needles, so she grabs a random one as well as the nearest pot of ink and pulls out a chair next to Bellamy. He made those too, whittling away at the wood for days.

“What do you want?” she asks, already prepping an area on his forearm despite him not even saying anything about the placement as yet.

“Maybe the ocean. I like the ocean,” he muses. “We do live by the ocean.”

“It’s nice, living by the ocean.”

“Very wet.”

They continue their back and forth as she dips the needle into the pot of ink and begins, only stopping when Bellamy procures  _ another _ bottle of moonshine, drinking to help dull the pain of the needle breaking skin over and over. 

In the end she draws a minimalistic version of a sunset-- or sunrise, depending on how you look at it-- over the ocean, just a few straight lines for the sea and a semicircle for the sun. It’s very simple, with thick dark lines that stand out nicely from the skin.

“It could probably pass as a clan tattoo,” she says, studying it while she cleans it up. “Maybe we should give it to all our people.”

“I could give it to you,” he says, already reaching for the ink, and Clarke is sufficiently drunk enough that nothing about that sentence sets off any alarm bells in her head. “You’re my people. You need one too.”

She grins and reveals her forearm to him too, already taking a swig from the bottle in preparation. “Okay.”

Unlike him, Clarke only has one tattoo, a small cluster of stars down the side of her ribcage that he helped her with.

Bellamy is more slow going with the needle than she was, taking his time and concentrating strongly as he tries to draw the lines as straight as possible. It takes him almost twice as long as her to finish it. His lines still come out a little wobbly despite his best efforts.

She doesn’t really remember much else after that, just the two of them sloppily slapping on a couple of bandages over the tender skin and flopping down on the sofa they made together. Bellamy built the frame while Clarke made the cushions for it using old clothes and then painting over it. It’s an ugly muddy green colour but like everything else in their house, she loves it.

They must have passed out there sometime late because the next morning she finds herself slumped down on it with her left leg gone numb and a terrible crick in her neck.

Beside her Bellamy groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“I am never drinking again,” he grumbles and Clarke makes a sound low in her throat agreeing with him as she tries to hook the strap of a canteen around her foot. Once she manages, she pulls it up into her grasp and flicks the lid off, eagerly slurping the cool water from inside. When she’s done she passes it to Bellamy who does the same.

“You always say that,” she rasps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“And I mean it this time,” he says firmly. “We got tattoos last night, Clarke. We were drunk enough to think that that was a good idea.”

“It doesn’t look all that bad,” she says, peeking under the bandage and he snorts.

“Still. Never again.”

She pats his chest. “If you say so buddy.”

They’re pretty useless for the rest of the day, just lazing around the cabin. They eat some stiff leftover jerky for breakfast and around noon Clarke heads out to their little garden to pick some tomatoes while Bellamy fries up some fish. It’s all very basic but they eat it outside on the porch with some spiced cider and by that time she’s starting to feel human again.

For the most part they’re able to ignore the tattoos. Even though they’re fairly permanent, it’s not the worst drunk decision Clarke has ever made, not by a long shot. Still, she does get a little thrill when she looks across and sees the matching mark on Bellamy’s arm. Just another way the two of them are a part of each other.

* * *

_ i. _

A village belonging to the Yujleda clan invites them for weekend visit and Clarke is ecstatic.

Apparently they have some of the best healers in all the clans and while she’s been able to mostly hold her own, there’s always room for improvement, at least that’s what she tells Bellamy when she’s trying to sell it to him.

“It’s why they say we  _ practice _ medicine,” she says, leaning against the doorframe in his room, “Because we’re always  _ learning _ .”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, thumbing through an old book that she knows he’s read about five times already. “You think this bush clan is gonna have some new tips and tricks up their sleeves or something?”

“It’s the  _ foliage  _ clan, and yes, they might,” she sniffs. “They’re well versed in horticulture.”

“You know you don’t need my permission to go, right?” he says, amused.

Clarke huffs. “I’m not asking for permission you big oaf, I’m telling you I’m going and that I want you to come with me.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Well yeah, duh.”

“Duh.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you sometimes Bellamy Blake.”

“Shut up and go back to your plants Clarke.”

The village is about a two-day ride from their little settlement. It would be faster if they took the rover, but most clans are still wary about technology and she thinks that showing up in a large, roaring hunk of metal might not be the best first impression. So they ride, she and Bellamy and Monty with a handful of others. 

She’s never actually been to any of this particular clans’ villages. They’re notoriously withdrawn and the only interactions she’s had with them have been with diplomats at sanctioned meetings with all the clans. So she’s not quite familiar with their customs and traditions.

Still, when they get there they’re greeted at the gates and a guard directs Bellamy and her to the central hut where the chieftain is waiting.

It’s summer, and the sweltering heat has forced them to remove their outer jackets, leaving them both in just thin short sleeved t-shirts. They stopped at a stream about an hour out for the village to freshen up, and they both pulled on their best shirts, the one with the least amount of holes and ripped hems.

The chieftain is a tall wiry lady dark skin and even darker hair pulled back in a series of complicated braids. She gives them a polite smile as they enter and they both nod their heads towards her.

“Clarke kom Sky kru,” she says, giving them her hand to grasp. Her eyes flitter over the exposed tattoo on her inner arm before flicking back up to meet her gaze.

“Bellamy kom Sky kru,” she says after she’s dropped Clarke’s hand and taken his. Again, Clarke sees how her eyes flit to his tattoo for half a second before looking back up at him.

An indiscernible look flashes over her face but it’s gone as soon as it appears and Clarke doesn’t have much time to think about it as soon they’re being properly welcomed and then the chieftain whispers something to a nearby guard before she has him lead them to their sleeping accommodations.

They have three huts, and the guard who escorts them explains that the first one is for Clarke and Bellamy while the rest of their people are to be divvied up amongst the other two. She thinks it’s a bit unfair that they have an entire hut for themselves and tries to explain to him that more can bunk with them, but the guard is adamant and Clarke relents quick enough, not wanting to offend their new hosts.

“Well this is cozy,” Bellamy says, dumping his backpack on the floor. 

It’s a small hut with only a single, narrow bed pushed against the furthest wall, a pail of water over a hearth for washing up, and a few mismatched chairs and a table.

“Look on the bright side, we’ll be busy most of the day,” she says, throwing her pack next to his. “This room is just for sleeping.”

“I don’t think it’s big enough to do much else,” he grumbles and she kicks him.

“Be nice,” she hisses. “A hut with a bed and fireplace is way better than pitching a tent and sleeping on a bedroll on the floor.”

“Always a glass half full type of person,” he says, almost fond.

They’re treated to a welcome feast that evening, just a couple hours after they’ve arrived. Clarke pulls on a clean blouse while Bellamy stands hunched over the small basin, trying to shave two days worth of stubble.

Clarke is seated opposite Bellamy instead of next to him like she usually is at these things and she takes the opportunity to kick his shin under the table. He kicks her right back and they continue like this back and forth until Monty throws them a dirty look when she accidentally steps on his toes. They stop after that but Bellamy still pulls a funny face or mocks one of the long boring speakers who’s going on and on about unity and she has to struggle to not spew wine through her nose.

“I swear, the two of you are children,” says Monty, rolling his eyes at them and she beams at him. They’re not children, not by a long shot, but sometimes it’s nice to just let go and play the fool, ignoring the weight of their responsibilities that lies heavy on their shoulders.

They don’t stay up too long after the feast is over, just mingling and chatting for an hour or so before begging off. The delegation from their little seaside has been travelling for almost two days and everyone is eager to wash and sleep in a warm safe bed instead of on the hard, dirt packed floor.

“I haven’t had a meal like that in years,” Bellamy groans when they finally make it back to their little hut. “I feel like I’m about to burst.”

Clarke understands where he’s coming from. They were treated to a diverse spread of meats and vegetables and starchy tubers. While they’re certainly not starving back home, most of their meals consists of fried or grilled fish and whatever vegetables they could scrounge up, nothing like the tender venison and soft boiled carrots they were given. They even had rice, fragrant long grains and Clarke was honestly about to cry over how good everything tasted.

“Right? I know they’re  _ supposed _ to be, like, the best doctors of all the clans or whatever, but holy shit, they’re the best chefs too,” she says, kicking off her shoes, and Bellamy snorts, shrugging off his jacket and beginning to undress for bed.

Neither of them comment on the single bed as they get ready for the night. It’s not the first time she’s been forced to share a bed with Bellamy and she’s certain it won’t be the last. It’s why she even packed a proper pair of pyjamas for the occasion, a dark tank top with some soft flannel pants, nothing like the thin nightshirts she wears back home.

Bellamy does the same, changing into a thin sleep shirt and shorts. She knows that back home he prefers to sleep in just his boxers, but, just like her, he’s making accommodations for the other.

The bed is small enough that she finds her side pressed flush against his. There was a time long ago when the two of them would be awkward about this, where Bellamy would offer to sleep on the floor and Clarke would blush and stammer and stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the feel of the boy next to her.

Now she just hooks her leg over his and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, combing his fingers through her hair.

“God I hope the trade agreements go through tomorrow,” she sighs as she relaxes into his touch. “They had lemon bars on the table today.  _ Lemon bars _ , Bellamy. We need to find a way to get them to include lemons in our deal.”

“I never had a lemon bar on the Ark,” he says, and she feels bad for about half a second, as she remembers that he grew up on Factory station. He wouldn’t have had enough credits to buy lemon bars and even if he did, he was helping his mother hide a whole other human being. He would have used those credits on something useful. The thought makes her sad.

Clarke wraps her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “I’ll make you all the lemon bars you could want,” she declares and he snorts, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her head.

“You’re the best,” he tells her, dragging the blankets closer to themselves and it’s only a matter of moments before they drift away.

They’re only here for the weekend so on Saturday most of the day is taken up by talking about trade negotiations and swapping information and ideas. It’s only in the evening she gets to finally check out their clinic, and even though she only spends an hour in there, she leaves with at least three pages full of notes.

“It’s amazing that you looked ready to fall asleep during the meeting but now you’re buzzing about and learning the medicinal properties of chickweed,” Bellamy says amusedly as he drags her to the mess hall for dinner.

“Because I have nothing to do at those,” she pouts, “You’re the one who does most of the talking and negotiating. You’re  _ charismatic _ .”

“And you’re just there to bully them into listening to me.”

“Exactly. I’m still known as Wanheda for a reason.”

“Of course you are,” he says, patting her shoulder as he strips off his t shirt and begins to wash up. “Although, was it just me, or was the energy in the room sort of weird?”

“No, yeah, I noticed that too,” she says, deliberately searching through her pack on the other side of the room as he continues to wash his chest and underarms. “What was that all about?”

“No idea.”

It didn’t seem too uncomfortable, like they did something wrong. It just felt… curious. All the eyes from the Yujleda clan looking at them every few seconds as though they were a question to be solved.

Clarke tries to ignore it but the question still persists in the back of her mind all throughout the night and then even during the next day, when she’s back in the clinic taking notes while Bellamy joins a hunting crew to go storm the forest to prepare for the goodbye feast tonight.

She gets the answer to it later when she’s at the feast.

Clarke is sitting with some other women before it starts, some her age, some older, some younger. They’re talking about different things-- the weather, trading patterns, clothes for the upcoming winter-- when Bellamy and some of the village men return from their trip to the river.

She’s seen him earlier when the hunting group came back of course, but she was too busy helping one of the healers drain an abscess to do anything about it.

Now though, she’s able to catch his eyes and nod, raising her glass towards him slightly, and he smiles back, lips curling up with a wry twist.

Besides her one of the grounder women giggle. 

“I heard he managed to take down an entire stag all by himself,” she whispers conspiratorially to the group, eyes darting back to Bellamy and blushing.

Clarke rolls her eyes as they continue to titter about Bellamy’s hunting prowess until finally an older woman snaps at them to shut up. 

“Have some respect,” she tells them firmly, “You’re speaking about the man in front of his wife as though she’s not even here.”

The others bow their heads shamefacedly and Clarke almost chokes on her tongue.

“I’m sorry what did you just say?” she asks the woman who frowns before taking her hand and grazing her fingers over the tattoo.

The same tattoo that adorns Bellamy’s arm.

Well shit.

“I said they need to be careful about how they speak of your husband,” the grounder woman explains, “I’ve known women who’ve cut of tongues for less.”

Clarke nods. “Right.” She dusts off her pants as she stands up, pulling her arm free from her grasp. “I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

They all giggle again when they see her walking off towards Bellamy and she feels her cheeks go red.

Bellamy smiles when he sees her coming towards him and it just makes her blush even deeper.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks before looking around at the crowd that surrounds them. “Alone?”

He nods and follows her outside of the mess hall where there was considerably less people.

“What’s up?”

She pauses for a second before taking a deep breath.

“The grounders think we’re married,” she says, straight to the point, like pulling off a bandage.

For a moment Bellamy doesn’t say anything, just stares at her. And then,

“They  _ what _ ?”

She licks her lips, trying her best to fight down the blush that threatens to overtake her cheeks. “Apparently matching tattoos is a declaration of eternal love or something around here.”

Bellamy still looks smacked in the face and Clarke reaches out to clumsily pat his shoulder.

“Look, you and I both know it doesn’t mean anything,” she tells him, “It’s just a silly tradition of theirs. It’s fine, just ignore it.”

“Right,” he says in a strangled sounding voice, “Just ignore the fact that everyone here seems to think that you’re my  _ wife _ .”

She can’t help the little thrill that goes through her at being called his wife, and Clarke has never wanted to slap herself more.

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“Sure it’s not.”

“I’m serious. It’s only a thing if you make it a thing. We’re not married. I know that. You know that. They might not know that but honestly it might be better this way. They won’t try to marry off one of us to their clan members for the sake of an alliance.”

“People hardly ever marry for the sake of alliances anymore,” he grumbles. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but you read too much history books.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Bellamy ignores that, cocking his head to the side as he looks at her, really looks at her until Clarke is struggling not to squirm under his gaze.

“What?” she finally snaps at him when he’s done nothing but stare for almost two full minutes.

He smirks at her. “What? I can’t look at my wife now?”

Clarke flushes deep red and he snickers at her until she abruptly ends it with one swift kick to the ankle.

“You’re the worst. I hate literally everything about you.”

“Nah you don’t,” he says, swinging an arm around her shoulders, a heavy comforting weight. “We’re married now, you’re obligated to like me.”

“More like I’m obligated to shove my foot up your ass,” she mumbles under her breath and he hears, pinching her bicep in retaliation.

* * *

_ ii. _

Every year they get invited to the summer solstice festival and every year they go. It’s usually just an excuse to throw a large party with diplomats from other clans but, despite the years that have passed, Bellamy and Clarke still aren’t exactly comfortable with getting blackout drunk with a bunch of grounders. So instead they mingle and work on securing new trade routes and swap information. Most people don’t want to party with them anyway. She’s still the notorious wanheda and he’s still the one that managed to defeat the Ice Nation once and for all.

Still, it’s been about a month or so since she found out that they were married back when they visited the Yujleda clan and now, here in Polis, it seems that almost  _ everyone _ knows about her apparent nuptials.

They’ve learnt to make peace with it.

Bellamy thinks it’s funny.

Then again, Bellamy thinks most things that upset her are funny.

“Everyone wants to buy me a drink,” he says when she asks him about it, “It’s fucking awesome.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Now Clarke has been mostly left to her own devices. She left Bellamy about half an hour ago talking to couple of warriors that he knew to go wander around the streets of Polis. It’s nothing like it usually is, drab and boring with a certain heaviness in the air. Instead there’s stalls set up on either sides of the streets with vendors selling everything from food to jewellery to even little knick knacks like old books and whittled horses.

She buys a mythology book with a helmet on the cover, all gold and black, for Bellamy, and then she buys a colourful shawl that’s soft to the touch for herself.

About another fifteen minutes or so have passed and she’s debating whether or not she should go looking for him, when she quite literally walks into someone.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she says, her hands fluttering over his torso but not exactly touching anywhere. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The grounder, a man, just smiles at her. “It’s no problem. I should have been paying attention myself,” he says in slightly accented English. “I am Aero kom Trishanakru.”

“Clarke,” she says, giving his hand a shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Clarke kom Sky kru,” he says, a note of reverence colouring his voice, “The pleasure is all mine.”

“How’d you know that? That I’m sky people?” she asks, only slightly intrigued.

Aero’s skin is far darker than hers but it doesn’t stop his flush from showing through, even in the limited light. “The clothes,” he admits. “You sky people dress in such peculiar ways.”

“It’s rather comfortable,” she tells him, “You should try it sometime.”

“Perhaps I will,” he says.

They’re suddenly engulfed in silence, the awkward kind that can only come from two strangers not knowing what to say, and she takes the moment to study him. He’s stocky but built, all tanned skin and green eyes and sandy brown hair that’s pulled back into a bun behind his head and he’s smiling at her, eager and bright.

“Would you like to get a drink?” he asks, “There is this particular cart down in the central square that has mulled wine. It’s very good.”

At this point Clarke has had several drinks and while she’s not drunk, she’s tipsy, and she’s certainly tipsy enough to not notice the flirty undertones that lace Aero’s voice.

So she finds herself grinning back at him as she says, “Sure,” following him back into the throes of people, keeping her book grasped tightly to her chest.

The wine  _ is _ good, and she finds herself laughing along to Aero’s stories. He’s a record keeper for his town, not the most glamorous of jobs, but it allowed him to learn English and have stories for all occasions and Clarke is rather enjoying his company.

This is where Bellamy finds them sometime later when Clarke is on her second goblet of wine, and he knocks his shoulder into her bare one.

“Hey,” he says, having to bend low to speak directly into her ear, “I’ve been looking for you all over.”

“Bellamy!” she says happily, tilting her head up to look at him. She hits him with a megawatt smile that has his face softening.

“Clarke,” he says, tugging on a lock of her hair. “I think someone is drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” she hiccups and he has to fight hard to suppress a grin.

“Uh-huh. Okay.”

“I am not drunk,” she says again, louder this time. “I’m fine and having fun and look! I even made a friend! This is Aero.”

Aero for his part does not look quite happy about being interrupted, especially not by Bellamy of all people.

“Nice to meet you,” says Bellamy, holding out a hand for him to shake.

The other man catches a glimpse of the tattoo on Bellamy’s inner arm and his entire face changes, paling slightly.

“Same to you,” he says, shaking once before dropping it as though it was on fire.

The three of them stand around chatting for a few more minutes, but the conversation is stiff and stilted and soon Aero is making up some excuse about having to find his friends before it gets too late.

Clarke doesn’t really notice the very obvious departure and instead turns to Bellamy and beams again.

“I bought you a book!” she tells him excitedly. “Look!”

She hands it over to him and he smiles at her, brushing a curl from her face. “Thanks Clarke,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze. “Do you want some water?”

She makes a face. “Not really but you’re gonna make me drink it anyway,” she sighs and he huffs out a laugh.

“Damn right I am,” he says, already uncapping the canteen he had strapped to his hip and passing it to her. She takes a couple healthy gulps before handing it back and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It’s hot,” she whines, trying to scoop her hair off her neck. It doesn’t matter that she’s already wearing her thinnest tank top, the summer heat is stifling and the crowds certainly don’t make it any easier. “Can you braid my hair for me?”

“Can’t you do it yourself?”

“ _ Bellamy _ .” she pouts.

“ _ Clarke _ .”

She pouts harder and he sighs, already carding his fingers through the tangles. “You’re so fucking spoilt, you know that?”

“Thank you, you’re the best,” she says and he just sighs again, making quick work of the braid. She turns back around and hugs him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and exhaling deeply. 

“Come on, let’s go back to our room,” he murmurs into her hair, lips just barely brushing the top of her forehead.

Later, when she’s lying next to Bellamy, listening to him snore, she’ll just sigh and burrow closer, leeching off his warmth, Aero and his record-keeping long forgotten.

* * *

_ iii. _

The first time Clarke gets a marriage proposal she doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

She doesn’t realise at first what’s happening. She’s met Tommen a few times, held a few conversations with him, and when he gives her a cloak made out of soft panther skin, she doesn’t think of it as anything more than a very generous gift.

Of course, she soon learns the truth, that accepting the gift means that she accepts his offer of betrothal, and it takes a  _ lot _ of peace talks to smooth things over with him and, by extension, his clan. Even now, years after the incident, she’s not exactly welcome amongst the Broadleaf clan.

It’s certainly not the last time someone offers her their hand in marriage and while the number has dwindled considerably over the past few years, she still gets the occasional offer that she has to turn down as respectfully as possible.

For some reason it never occurred to her that  _ Bellamy _ would be getting these offers too.

Zona is a skilled warrior and hunter, just like Bellamy, and she comes from a long family of bookkeepers. The first time they met was at fair a few months ago and they bonded immediately over their love of books and weaponry. She’s nothing like Clarke, tall and lithe and toned with dark hair and even darker eyes. She’s pretty in a way that Clarke knows she could never be.

Bellamy seems to like her though, and whenever she’s in the area they always spend hours catching up, talking to each other with an ease that makes her stomach churn unpleasantly.

Clarke’s not jealous. She’s  _ not _ .

It’s just that Bellamy is her best friend, more than her best friend really, he’s a piece of her just as she’s a piece of him. Of course she loves him. And Clarke knows that she’s possibly the most important person in his life and that should be enough.

Except it’s not, not when he throws his head back and laughs at something Zona says, or when she sits with them and can’t keep up with their inside jokes because ‘you’d have to be there to understand it.’

She visits them in the heat of August, showing up on horseback in the middle of the night. Clarke wakes up when one of the guards on shift at the gate comes looking for Bellamy, telling him about her arrival, and she hears as he softly pads about his room, pulling on clothing before slipping out the door.

He doesn’t come back the rest of the night and she tries not to think too much about it, especially when she finds them in the mess hall at breakfast grinning at each other over bowls of porridge.

“Hey,” she says, plopping down on the bench next to him. 

“Hey,” he says, tapping his foot against hers. “You remember Zona right?”

She tries her very best to not let her bitterness show on her face. “Yeah,” she says before pasting on a bright smile as she looks over at her. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” she nods as she takes a sip of her tea.

“She’s going to be staying with us for a few days,” says Bellamy and Clarke’s cheeks are beginning to hurt from all the smiling.

“ _ Great _ .” She pushes back from the table, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets. “Well I’ve got to run. Today is inventory day. All those herbs aren’t going to count themselves.”

“I thought Sasha took care of that last week?” he frowns and Clarke curses his memory.

“Yeah, but then Monty gave me his harvest from the greenhouses yesterday so. There’s more to add,” she says, and it’s technically  _ not _ a lie. “Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

Bellamy was right, inventory was done just last week, and Clarke keeps extensive notes on all her patients so it only takes her about an hour to check everything, even the new supply of herbs and grasses and roots Monty dropped off last evening. Still, she spends the rest of her day hiding out in medical and trying her best not to watch Bellamy and Zona spar in the training yard through the window.

She can’t stay hidden all day though and by the time the sun starts to set, she grudgingly makes her way back to their cabin.

Bellamy isn’t there, but there is a note written on a small corner of her sketchpad torn out and tucked halfway under her can of colour pencils. Apparently he’s gone for a walk with Zona and he’ll be back later, after dinner, and Clarke is  _ fine _ . Everything is  _ fine _ .

She tries to rationalize with herself that she’s being ridiculous, it’s not like she has any claim on him. Besides, Bellamy is a fairly attractive man. It makes sense that another fairly attractive individual is going to be, well,  _ attracted _ to him.

He’s a big boy, if he wants to go on evening walks with Zona then who is she to stop him.

Clarke heads out to their little garden in the back and works out her frustrations on the land, tilling the soil and snipping off dead leaves until all her little trees and shrubs are almost perfect. It’s a good enough distraction and by the time Bellamy returns-- much, much later, and she is adamantly  _ not _ thinking about it thank you very much-- she’s much calmer, scrubbing the last of the dirt and sweat off in their shower.

“How was your walk?” she asks, patting her hair dry with an old t-shirt.

He shrugs, popping one of her freshly picked berries into his mouth. “Good. She showed me how to set this new kind of trap to catch big game. That means we’ll have to send out less hunting parties.”

“That’s great,” she says a bit absently. “When is she going to leave again?”

“In a couple of days. Why, you eager to get rid of her?”

Yes. “No. I just want a date so I can let the kitchens know to make something a little fancy,” she lies easily.

He snorts, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the peg by the door. “Can you tell them to do that tomorrow? She said she has some sort of present for me and I feel like a right ass not having something for her.”

Clarke freezes mid-step. “A present?”

“Mhmm.”

“For you?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she answers quickly, even as her mind whirls a mile a minute. “Just a bit tired, you know.”

She doesn’t really stick around to hear his reply, darting into her room and letting the door fall shut.

It’s just a present.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

She can’t stop herself from thinking about the implications of it all and it makes her feel a bit nauseous.

Clarke sleeps fitfully that night, dreaming of scenarios where Bellamy gets married and leaves her, where Bellamy moves on with his life and forgets about little old her, where Bellamy finds someone to  _ replace  _ her.

She doesn’t mean to, but she spends the next day shadowing him, trying to be inconspicuous while she follows him around their little village. He oversees the expansion of the greenhouses and Clarke strikes up a conversation with Monty while he discusses measurements and materials with his men. He takes inventory of all their weapons and ammunition, everything locked away safe in a small shed just ten paces from their house, and Clarke helps him, joking about her inability to shoot straight. She follows him to lunch and then when he’s on rounds and even when he goes to the river to do laundry.

The only time she’s not all but pressed to his side is at dinner, where she steps away to help out behind the counter at the kitchens, and that’s when Zona decides to strike, lugging a large package behind her and putting it on the table between them.

There’s no doubt in her mind now that this is what she thinks it is, a wedding proposal, and the fact is even further cemented when Bellamy unwraps it to reveal a set of beautiful handcrafted leather bound books.

It’s the tipping point for Clarke.

She’s halfway across the room before she even realises, hair frizzy and cheeks flushed and, without pausing to even think about it, she throws herself at his neck, arms wrapped around him. Bellamy goes tense for half a second before he realises that it’s just her and then he leans into her touch.

It’s not just the sudden public display of affection, no, at this position, both their tattoos are on display for the world to see, and she can pinpoint the exact moment Zona’s eyes land on it, her lips pursing like she’s sucked on something sour.

Clarke tries not to preen too much but she just can’t help but say, “Oh, those are gorgeous. I bet they’d look wonderful on the shelf.” She nudges Bellamy with her nose, “You know, the one right next to the hearth.”

“I can’t believe you’re already thinking of placement options for it,” he says, laughing a little and she smiles at him.

“Of course I am. Rule number one, always be prepared. Especially for interior decorating.”

The three of them chat for a little while longer, Bellamy and Clarke carrying the conversation while Zona just interjects with sullen one word answers ever so often until Clarke slips away.

She hums on her way back to the cabin, happy.

Bellamy doesn’t follow right away, not that she expected him too. He’s probably still chatting with his friend.

She starts to tidy up the place a little bit, straightening their shoes by the door and clearing all of the things that have started to spill out from their bedrooms into their communal living area.

She’s still humming when Bellamy storms in and she feels her good mood drop significantly.

“What’s wrong?” she asks as she wipes down the countertops.

“Zona is leaving,” he says, voice flat. “Apparently she has other, more pressing matters at hand to deal with.

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

“Are you really though?”

Clarke levels him with a sharp glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, dropping the rag on the counter so she can observe him with her hands on her hips.

“Nothing,” he shrugs one shoulder. “It’s just funny that you come along and say five sentences if so much and then she wants to leave.”

“Well I didn’t say anything untoward to your  _ girlfriend _ if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says bitterly and he furrows his brow.

It’s his turn to glare at her. “What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?” he demands, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“Oh come on, you know exactly what it means,” she scoffs.

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. Girlfriend?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “The long walks at night, spending your days with her. She was just about ready to propose to you!”

“She was not going to propose to me,” he says looking at her as though she was delusional.

“She literally was.”

“But I- we’re not- she’s not even my  _ girlfriend _ ,” he sputters and she feels some level of satisfaction that he didn’t notice her very obvious crush. “How do you know she was going to  _ propose _ ?”

“Because I’ve been there before, dumbass,” she says, and a dark cloud settles across his face. “It always starts with little walks and things here and there to try and learn what you like and then the proposal is a big gesture or something where they present a present to you and you have to decide if you want it or not.”

“Well she ran away before I could turn her down,” he grumbles.

“Good,” she says without thinking and then curses herself when Bellamy’s eyes snaps towards her, dark and heavy, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Good?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, but the blush on her cheeks makes it clear that she was lying.

“Pretty sure you just said that it was good that she left,” he says, taking a step closer to her. “Why’d you think it would be good?”

“I told you, I didn’t say anything.” She tries to back up but her back hits the counter behind her and she jumps.

“Clarke.” He takes another step forward and she has nowhere to run.

“Bellamy.”

“Tell me the truth.” Another step.

“I am.”

“No you’re not.” Their toes are almost touching.

“Yes I am.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, finally stepping into her space, and she has to tilt her head back to see him. He’s taller than her, dusted with even more freckles than usual due to the summer sun, hair grown out so that his curls are loose and floppy.

“I’m not lying,” she whispers as her resolve slowly crumble around her. Bellamy can sense it too, and he skirts a hand up her arm, lingering on the dark mark of her tattoo.

“Yes you are,” he says, gripping her shoulder lightly. He leans in so that his mouth almost brushes against her ear when he speaks. “Why is it good that she left? That I didn’t take her up on her offer? Why did you try and stop her?”

“Because you’re  _ mine  _ okay?” she says loudly, finally snapping, and the words echo through the house, hanging heavy in the air around them.

Bellamy is beaming.

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he murmurs, and then he’s cupping her jaw and leaning in, closer and closer until  _ finally _ he kisses her, soft and sweet and a little sloppy because he can’t stop smiling and Clarke is too eager, making him laugh into her mouth as she tries to rush things along.

“Hey relax, I got you,” he says, pulling away for a second, running his hands up and down her arms in a soothing fashion and it helps calm the rapid tattoo of her heart pounding against her sternum.

This next kiss is far better, less messy but just as soft and just as sweet. He cradles her jaw gently, changing the angle of the kiss so his teeth are able to flash against her lips, nipping at it, and she melts against his chest. Clarke feels like she can get drunk off of his kisses, feeling like she’s both floating and falling at the same time and the only thing keeping her tethered to this world is Bellamy, his arms around her waist, her hands tangled in his hair.

He’s still smiling when they finally pull away and his happiness is infectious, as she finds herself smiling right back at him, just as big and goofy.

“I don’t want to marry her,” he says softly, almost whispering it in her hair. “Even if she asked me before all of this, I’d have said no.”

“Really?”

He snorts. “I’ve been fucking in love with you for  _ years _ now Clarke Griffin. I built you a house. I moved in with you. Hell, I followed you hundreds of miles away from Arkadia to here knowing full well that we could have died at any point,” he says, linking their fingers together. “Of course I love you. I’m in this for the long haul.”

She really can’t stop smiling, grinning up at him and he grins right back, resting his forehead on his.

“I love you too,” she says, and it’s true. She does love. Has loved him for years. Maybe not always in that way but it was still there and now she can say it and see that ridiculously happy grin bloom on his face.

“I can’t believe you were jealous,” he says, smirking a little. “I do all this shit and you don’t notice my feelings for you, but the moment I talk to another girl you turn into a little green monster.”

She ducks down, hiding her face against his chest. “Shut up,” she whines.

“It’s just really funny if you think about it.”

“You’re terrible. You’re a terrible human being.”

“Yeah but you love me,” he points out and yeah, okay it’s true, but she can’t let him use that as his trump card. So Clarke leans forward, stretching up on her tiptoes and kisses that smug look off his face once and for all.

* * *

_ +i.  _

She finds him on the rock again, far removed from everyone else as he stares out at the ocean.

“Do you ever come to any of the parties we have?” she asks, curious, as she scales up the side of the rock to perch next to him.

“I come to them,” he says, “I just don’t stay.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Of course you don’t.”

The wind blows and she shivers. It’s springtime and there’s still just enough of a chill in the air that she wears her jacket all the time. Even so, it’s amplified here by the ocean and she finds herself burrowing into Bellamy’s side to leech off his warmth. He’s like a furnace, always radiating heat, and it comes in particularly handy during the colder months of the year.

He slings his arm around her and pulls her closer so that she’s almost in his lap, legs strewn over his and her face tucked against the crook of his neck.

He exhales contentedly. “I prefer this over a party any day,” he says and she smacks his stomach without much force.

“Sap.”

“You love it.”

“That’s true. I do,” she says, linking their hands together.

He’s right of course, even though she’d never admit it. She loves nothing more than moments like these when it’s just the two of them and they could just  _ be _ . Loves curling up next to him on the couch or in bed and resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. Loves feeling his skin on hers, whether it’s just their hands pressed together or the entire length of their naked bodies.

And she especially loves being able to just lean up and kiss him. To hold his face in her hands and guide him down to her lips.

She does that now, and they exchange languid kisses back and forth for what feels like an eternity, getting lost in the feel of each other’s lips and the tastes of their mouths.

They do need to breathe though, which means that eventually they need to pull apart, but they don’t go too far. Bellamy keeps his forehead pressed against hers, eyes closed as he pants slightly, and she keeps one hand on his jaw and the other curled in a loose fist right over his heart.

“Marry me,” he murmurs, and the sound of it almost gets lost in the wind.

“What?”

“Marry me,” he says again, slowly opening his eyes to look at her. “I had this whole big speech planned out and thing but this moment was too good to pass up.”

“And you want to marry me.”

“I want to marry you,” he confirms, taking his hands off her waist for a moment to rifle through his pockets. It takes him a moment but then with a triumphant ‘Aha!’ he finds what he was looking for and Clarke feels her breath catch in her chest.

“Did you make this?” she asks, tentatively trailing a finger across the ring he held tight between his index finger and thumb. Her hands shake slightly and she can feel the emotion build up in her chest, threatening to overflow.

“For the most part yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair, a nervous tic of his. “I traded for the gold and had some help molding it and setting the stone in the centre.”

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, still unable to take her eyes off the ring.

“It’s yours.”

Clarke looks back up at him. “Bellamy…”

“I know, according to pretty much anyone else, we’re married already but I just want you to know that this,” he touches his hand to her tattoo, “Doesn’t define us.”

“I’d like to think we’d have figured out our shit ourselves without the tattoos,” she muses and he huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, maybe, but it probably would have taken a while knowing my luck,” he says, rolling his eyes and she giggles. “So yeah. Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Bellamy can’t stop smiling as he slips the ring onto her finger. It’s a little bit big for her but Clarke doesn’t mind, catching herself staring down at the ring more often than not. It’s a delicate gold band, thin and simple and a little janky from where he handled it while it was still hot, and the stone was dark blue and glitters when the light hits it, reminding her of a starry night or being back up in space, standing on the observation deck and looking out.

It’s beautiful.

They have the wedding just a week later right here on top of this rock. 

There are no guests, no priests, no officiants or anyone to do any readings or say any prayers. Instead, Clarke dons her best outfit-- a daisy patterned sundress she found in a bunker a few months ago-- and Bellamy shaves and cuts his hair, wearing his shirt with the least amount of holes in it.

They sit on top of the rock in the middle of the day, breathing in the salt and seaspray and reciting the vows that they themselves come up with. There’s very little pomp and circumstance to the whole thing, and she says things like ‘I vow to take care of you on your good days and bad ones and the sick ones even though that’s my literal job,’ while Bellamy swears to her, ‘I’ll always protect you, even if it means jumping in front of a sword and getting my face cut off.’

It’s only just a little bit ridiculous, but Clarke likes it. After all, the two of them  _ are _ ridiculous.

The wedding lasts fifteen minutes at most and Clarke slips on a ring she made out of iron onto his ring finger before Bellamy grabs her and kisses her breathless.

Their tattoos-- the ones that started this whole thing-- shine through the entire day and Clarke can’t help but stare at them more than usual. A couple other people asked her for one just like it or slightly tweaked, and she always tells them no. That tattoo is for her and husband alone.

They might have only been married for a couple minutes now but it’s because of those that they’ve even made it this far and Clarke has never been happier about a drunken mistake in her life, not when it led her to this. To her and Bellamy and their very own happily ever after.


End file.
